Sawyer felt nothing. For as long as he could remember he hadn't felt a thing.
Sure, there were brief bursts of anger, splashes of lust played out in a cheap motel on top of a skanky, and equally cheap girl,but they were only surface feelings. A bit of entertainment thrown into an otherwise dull life of 'going through the notions'. They weren't real, they didn't count.
But then Sawyer crashed on the island and he began to watch Jack. A man that lived the same unfeeling lifestyle he did. He watched him, and he liked it. Liked him.
Sawyer didn't give a fuck about any of them really, and it wasn't like he felt he should even pretend to care about what Jack might think of him. He didn't care if he was rejected.
So he followed Jack, and he led him into the jungle. And he knocked him out. And he tied him to a tree. And he raped him.
Sawyer didn't look at Jack's face once during the sex - he guessed he could call it that. He couldn't even recall how Jack reacted to any of it. Did he try to fight him off? Did he cry out? Did he like it?
But it didn't matter. Jack didn't matter. Sex didn't mean anything, not really. It was just something you did. Rape wasn't so different. Tomorrow some shit would be going down when Jack told the rest of them, but that was another day. And Sawyer was tired, so he didn't think about it.
Just another cheap whore. That's all.
Sawyer went to sleep.
But they didn't come after him that night, or in the morning, or not for the whole day. At first Sawyer thought they were ignoring him. "Ignore him and he'll go away." Now that sounded familiar. But when he stared at Hurley, - the fat lard was always the biggest give - he found himself waiting for some kind of indication that never came. The rounder man just stared back in confusion. It was the same when he watched Locke, Sayid, Juliet. Even Kate.
Jack hadn't told. He hadn't spoken a word.
Why?
Then he saw him. Familiar faded jeans, cut off tee, and tan leather backpack full of medical supplies for ungrateful, hypochondriacal and demanding strangers. He didn't even blink, he just made his rounds and then moved along, like he was stuck in auto pilot. Expressionless. Broke.
But he turned, taking something out of his bag, Jack began to move towards Sawyer. He didn't smile, but he didn't look upset. No, it wasn't that. It was disappointment. Pity.
He didn't speak of anything that had happened the previous night. He approached, numb. Sawyer knew what he'd done. Jack didn't need to tell him.
And it was better unspoken.
As he approached him, Jack tossed a half eaten mango.
"Here." He said, as it fell in to Sawyer's lap. "For you."
And he left.
And now Sawyer did feel something. But what was it? Dominance? Power. Intrigue? Regret?
But he didn't care. It was a surface feeling. It didn't mean anything. It didn't.
It didn't.
Eyeing Boone, that materialistic, spoiled little rich kid, Sawyer bit in to the mango.